


Sodium Hypochlorite, and Other Flavors

by expected_aberrance



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Humor, I lost a bet and this is all WriterChick's fault, Nonsense, Pervy Pete creeping as only he does best, Refrigerator, bleach and other cleaning supplies, full body personal protective equipment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 22:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10422924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expected_aberrance/pseuds/expected_aberrance
Summary: Petyr crossed his arms and sighed, leaning against the rough stone wall and eyeing his opponent with distaste. His adversary withstood the scrutiny with far greater equilibrium than Baelish was used to facing, merely sitting across from him placidly. He would exact a most horrible vengeance for the affront when the opportunity came, he could promise that. Unfortunately, at present, all of his threats and glares did little to further mar the already stained and scratched surface of the denarian Frigidaire staring back at him. There were infinitely more pleasurable ways to take advantage of her family’s absence from the home than cleaning vegetation out of an ancient, decrepit refrigerator, but sadly, he’d been unable to convince Sansa of their considerable merits...





	

Petyr crossed his arms and sighed, leaning against the rough stone wall and eyeing his opponent with distaste. His adversary withstood the scrutiny with far greater equilibrium than Baelish was used to facing, merely sitting across from him placidly. No, he decided, smugness was a better term for it--tickled pink, even--to be wasting his valuable time. He would exact a most horrible vengeance for the affront when the opportunity came, he could promise that. Unfortunately, at present, all of his threats and glares did little to further mar the already stained and scratched surface of the denarian Frigidaire staring back at him. There were infinitely more pleasurable ways to take advantage of her family’s absence from the home than cleaning vegetation out of an ancient, decrepit refrigerator, but sadly, he’d been unable to convince Sansa of their considerable merits. Suddenly, he became aware of a chill down his spine, and pushed away from the wall cursing when he realized it was from condensation seeping through his shirt.

_ Bollocks.  _ If he was doomed to spend his afternoon in the cold, drafty basement of the Stark household without engaging in some sort of carnal activity, he expected to be properly rewarded later. He hoped Sansa would be quite appreciative of his supportive efforts, at least. If all else failed, he imagined he would enjoy the sight of her on her knees, her tight little arse wriggling in the air, breasts straining the confines of her low-cut shirt, while she scrubbed away at the appliance. Perhaps, if he were lucky, some of the hot water in the heavy buckets he’d lugged down for her might go astray, a few wayward splashes to dampen the thin, threadbare cotton of her top and the frayed cutoffs she was wearing. 

The creak of the old wooden steps behind alerted him to Sansa’s arrival. When he turned to watch her descend the stairs, however, he was surprised and not a little alarmed to see a figure out of a science fiction movie approach him, carrying a jug of bleach in one gloved hand and a pack of scouring pads in the other, with a spray bottle of the stuff and rolls of paper towels cradled against its chest. Somehow, Sansa had obtained a bright yellow full-body suit of the sort reserved for government employees cleaning up disaster areas. 

He felt an acute, profound, almost palpable sense of disappointment, and didn’t hide it in his tone. “Where the hell did you get that?” He might even be pouting, but forgave himself the lapse in dignity considering the downturn his entertainment prospects just took. 

Her voice was muffled through the clear plastic faceplate of the hood as she set down her burdens by the fridge. “One of Jon’s friends works in a lab.”

He snorted. “Doing what? Weaponizing Ebola?”

“I don’t ask.” She may have shrugged, but he was unable to tell in the bulky suit. 

He gave her a skeptical look. “Don’t you think it’s a tad much?”

She shook her head vehemently. “Not at all. You didn’t grow up with my brothers. I’ve seen Robb scrape an inch of fungus off jam, spread it over half-moldy bread, and eat it because he’d spent his remaining money for the semester on beer.” She eyed the fridge warily, wrinkling her nose in a manner he found adorable but would never admit to aloud under pain of torture. “There could be  _ anything  _ in here, living or dead. Hopefully dead.”

“Which begs the question of  _ why _ you’re doing this,” he huffed. 

Her brow furrowed stubbornly. “I told you. I need one for my apartment.”

He let out a long-suffering sigh, reiterating his position in the argument they’d had several times now. “I’ll buy you a fridge. I’ll buy you ten.”

The corners of her mouth lifted in a soft smile. “I appreciate that Petyr, but I want to do this myself.”

Her independent streak was endearing, if inconvenient at times. He refrained from pointing out that inheriting an old moldy fridge from an elder sibling was hardly the equivalent of stalking and slaying one’s own appliance bare-handed in the wild; she hadn’t exactly welcomed it the last time he'd done so. He tried a different tack, arguing, “You’re not even really going to be living there. You spend most of your time at my place as it is.”

“If my parents come over they’ll be expecting a fully furnished apartment. Which includes a fridge,” she answered matter-of-factly, turning away from him to assess the magnitude of the undertaking she’d tasked herself with. Baelish delighted in watching the play of emotions over her face as she weighed tactics and strategy, biting her lip in a way he found particularly delicious. 

To start, he had to help her pry the door open, which was not a good omen. The putrid smell emanating from it made both of them flinch back, Petyr bearing the worst of it, lacking his own set of personal protective equipment. She cajoled him into aerating the freezer portion as well, which yielded putrescence of a slightly milder odor. Odds were the interior had initially been white, but one could not say so definitively from looking at it now. The overall aesthetic might best be described as brownish-gray crusted slime, but it was merely an average of a multitude of colors and textures, each repellent in its own unique way. It was difficult to tell where rotten food ended and the mysterious creatures feeding off it began. The origins of the contents remained equally unidentifiable, as even the labels on the containers that had them were discolored and peeling. Petyr thought it might be easier to set the whole thing on fire and see what could be salvaged later, but kept that bit of counsel to himself. 

Sansa’s first move was to unload the spray bottle into the fridge, coating every surface such that it started to resemble a particularly unappealing foam party. He admired her determination as she set to work, gamely chipping away at congealed masses of foulness. Bits of amorphous gunk dripped down on her as if it had achieved sentience and started fighting back; the possibility of it representing an entirely new form of life couldn’t be excluded. He half-expected one of the mounds of goo to grab the sponge out of her hand and smite her with it. 

She pulled the shelving and drawers out next, facing substantial resistance; she had to brace herself with a foot against the base of it as she pried each piece free. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the plastic had given way before the microbial cement did. Slowly, she chipped away at it layer by layer, tossing hot water from the buckets to rinse it down then reapplying more bleach. Petyr stepped back as the murky liquid leached out in an ever-widening puddle around her; it seemed like the sludge was intentionally avoiding the sunken drain in the floor nearby.

He tried to put a positive spin on Herculean task Sansa had set for herself. “Well, it’s not the worst I’ve ever seen. Do you know what happens to a body cut up and left in an unplugged fridge for six months?” he mused. 

She grunted. “No, Petyr. And I never want to.”

He disregarded her protest in favor of painting a vivid picture. “Imagine a midpoint between Jello and clam chowder, and it comes close...”

“Petyr please stop--” she groaned, each swipe of her brush growing more violent. 

He persisted out of curiosity, wondering how far he could go before she retaliated. “The fat tends to separate out, saponification I think they call it--and turns quite frothy--” 

She glared at him over her shoulder. “Petyr, I’m going to hurl in this suit--”

“--not to mention what  _ grows  _ on it--”

“-- _ for the love of god-- _ urp-- _ shut up-- _ ” 

“--at first we thought it was hair, but then we realized not even the poor bastard inside could be quite  _ that  _ hirsute--” 

She threw a graying, bleach-soaked sponge at him, aiming for his legs rather than his head, fortunately. He jumped back, but wasn’t nimble enough to escape the splash of caustic liquid on his shoes. He gave her an indignant look. “Those were handcrafted Italian leather,” he complained.    
  
“You should’ve thought of that the second or third time I told you to stop talking,” she snarled, eyes flashing at him in irritation. He mourned the loss of his footwear, and likely that of the equally high end chinos he was sporting as well. The delightful experience of bearing the brunt of her annoyance more than made up for it however. He loved watching fury set her eyes alight, stirring twin blue seas into a maelstrom, press her lips into beguiling crimson lines, coat her voice in ice sharp enough to tear flesh; it never failed to send shivers down his spine and blood to his cock. Indeed, she’d begun to have that predictable effect on him even now, and he shifted in discomfort. As Sansa attacked the fridge with renewed ferocity, he could easily imagine the dance of muscle under the delicate skin of her back and slender limbs he was desperate to taste and mark and had to bite back a groan. 

_ Fuck.  _ Furtively, he palmed his growing erection, trying to ease the ache with little success, and had to resort to surreptitiously rubbing and squeezing himself through constricting cloth, keeping his breath as even as he could. He must've been too quiet though, for she suddenly looked over her shoulder at him in suspicion. He quickly moved to clasp his hands together in front of him to little avail. She took in the hunger in his expression he hadn’t been fast enough to conceal and registered what precisely he was attempting to cover with minimal success, asking incredulously, “Were you  _ touching yourself  _ just now?”

He resisted the urge to press down on the rather noticeable evidence of his perversity.  “...Maybe.”

She sat back on her heels, flummoxed. “I’m covered head to toe in yellow Tyvek cleaning biohazardous waste out of a fridge. What could you possibly find arousing about this?”

He shrugged. “I know what you look like beneath it.” If he disclosed that he found riling her up just as stimulating--if not more so--he stood an even greater chance of having to deal with his current  _ predicament  _ alone. 

“There’s something very wrong with you.” Sansa’s expression was caught somewhere between disturbed and interested. Damn it all if that wasn’t an incredible turn-on as well. 

He gave her his most enticing leer. “And you love me for it.”

“Sometimes I wonder.” She rolled her eyes, but the fond expression on her face softened the blow. “Could you let go of your cock for a second and grab those paper towels for me?” 

Acquiescing required him to wade into the morass around the recalcitrant refrigerator, but he figured he might as well considering his shoes were ruined anyway. At that point, the worst of the scum was dissolved by the bleach to be washed down the drain or deposited into the large bin nearby. With his help, they managed to scrape the remaining grit and grime off of the structure soon enough. The white interior revealed beneath it wasn’t quite polished, but certainly better off than Petyr would have predicted at the start of their endeavor. At last, Sansa removed her hood and gloves to admire her handiwork, though made no move as yet to divest herself of the voluminous remainder depriving him of the sight of her delectable form. 

He crossed his arms and gave her a disgruntled look. “Are we also going to have to lug this upstairs today as well?”

“No, I’ll get Robb, Theon, and Jon to do it when they come down this weekend.” She dumped out what water was left and gathered the remaining supplies. “Let’s just take the bin out.” 

He eyed it with suspicion. “If you give it time, it may make the trip all by itself,” he cracked. Sansa stared and just tapped her foot, looking incredibly unimpressed until he finally picked it up with bad grace. Following her up the stairs, he grumbled some more about the deleterious effect of the garbage can’s contents on his attire even as he focused on the strands of copper that had escaped her hair tie cling to her neck, watching beads of sweat roll down the pale column and disappear under yellow plastic. 

“You know, we’re both going to need showers after this. Pretty thorough ones,” she tossed over her shoulder offhandedly when he paused for breath. Petyr suddenly found the energy to carry as many buckets of offal as she liked up any number of stairs, unabashed thrall to her charms as he was. He started calculating how much time they might have before the Stark horde descended upon them once more, and decided it was sufficient to work through a good portion of the list of things he suddenly and very urgently wanted to do to her. And should it happen that they came home early--well, he’d be sure to lock and bar the door, and deal with the consequences afterwards. 

**Author's Note:**

> This bit of utter nonsense is entirely WriterChick's fault. The requirement was 'Petyr watching Sansa bleach a refrigerator' and this was the result. A space suit was to be involved as well, but I had to compromise a bit. Enjoy!


End file.
